


Memory

by ScribereEstAgere



Category: Law & Order: Criminal Intent
Genre: Caretaking, Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Mental Health Issues, Old Age, True Love, everyone dies, getting old sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-03-29
Packaged: 2018-01-17 11:15:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1385608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribereEstAgere/pseuds/ScribereEstAgere
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You want to know everything about them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Memory

//

 

Once upon a time, many years from now when they are quite old, they walk, hand in hand to the park and back every day.

From a distance, say if you happen to be sitting on a bench and happen to see them approach, he looks much older than she does. He’s heavier than he was, and greyer. She, however, looks almost the same as she ever did, slight and slightly worried, light hair swinging across her face. He walks more slowly than he did and leans on her for support even more than he used to. She holds him up easily, even though she is so very much smaller, because she always has and she always will and she wouldn’t have it any other way.

You find yourself wanting to know everything about them.

They sit together on the bench across from yours, maybe, and they sit closely together and hold hands and they watch everything. He nudges her from time to time, and leans over to whisper something in her ear. He points at people who pass and she smiles up at him and sometimes shakes her head a little. Sometimes she laughs out loud and this sound pleases him, you can tell. He lifts her hand to his mouth and presses his lips against her wrist, and then her palm. He closes his eyes as he does this, but she looks up at him, eyes bright: she never takes her eyes off his face. If you think: They have been married for a long time and they are so in love, you will be right about one thing — they are so in love.

They are, however, not married. They never married but it was fine with both of them. She was married once and her husband was killed and she had no desire to ever marry again. He just wanted her with him, no matter what, so when he finally told her he loved her and wanted to be with her she said she loved him, too, and would be with him always. And that was that.

They never had children together, and that made them sad for awhile, but they both had nephews they loved dearly and that almost made it all right.

They worked together for a long time as partners, until he became too sick. Mentally, physically. Everyone saw it coming and she did, too, but still, she cried until she threw up the day he cleared his desk and emptied his locker and went home. They were already together then, but the thought of coming to work every day with another partner was almost more than she could bear. He left the job but he consulted from home — their home — when he could and he still helped solve hundreds of cases with a mind that was clear and quick and cutting but was gradually loosening its grip on reality. Some days more than others.

A long time ago he taught her how to play chess, one of his favourite games, and although she developed some admirable skills over the years, she never really enjoyed it. She grew up playing cards, fast and rowdy: Crazy Eights, Blackjack, Thirty-One, Old Maid, Snap, and when she was older, all forms of Poker. She teaches him some of those but he is lackadaisical at best.

Now she plays Memory with him, often, to help keep his mind sharp. She spreads the deck of playing cards across the table, glossy blue-patterned backs slipping under her small hands, and they drink tea and try to make matches, sometimes by number and sometimes by suite and sometimes just by colour. It depends on what kind of day he’s having. On the bad days colour seems to work best. Red/red, black/black. Easy enough. When he makes a match it pleases him, which pleases her.

On the bad days he forgets things: What day it is, what year it is, his middle name, his address, his old job. He remembers everything about her, however. He has never forgotten one single detail about her and for that she is profoundly grateful. He remembers what she was wearing the first time they met (green shirt/black pants) and he remembers what she was wearing the first time they made love (blue dress) and he remembers her birthday and her badge number, her scent and the way his hand cups the curve of her breast in the darkest part of the night.

Other details are slipping away as his mind slips away, but he clings to her desperately and that keeps him saner than any drug or therapy or sleep ever could. He wouldn’t want it any other way.

She is with him when he dies on a balmy May afternoon because she is always with him and she wouldn’t have it any other way. He passes quietly. They are holding hands. There are fresh tulips in a vase on his bedside table, which had pleased him. She lays her head on his chest and waits for something. She thinks she’s waiting for him to come back, or else she’s waiting to join him, but neither of those things happens. At least not right away.

She outlives him by five years. She still goes to the park every day and she sits on the same bench and she watches and waits. She drinks tea and she sometimes plays Memory when she’s in the mood, but mostly she plays a lot of Solitaire during those years, and misses him like she would miss the air or the sun and she cries almost every single day.

When she dies she is buried with him, which is what they had planned many years before. Their nephews tend their grave and once in awhile leave fresh tulips, which would have pleased them both immensely.

But this all happened some time ago.

In case you’re wondering where they are.

 

//

 

_Fin_


End file.
